


Simple Gifts

by kendermaus



Category: The Pretender
Genre: Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:18:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2810297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kendermaus/pseuds/kendermaus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jarod investigates troubling shortages at a half-way house/shelter that serves displaced and homeless veterans.  Along the way he discovers that family is about more than just blood relation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple Gifts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rivkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivkat/gifts).



> Massive thanks to my betas - without them, this wouldn't have been nearly as good. Any remaining mistakes are ALL my own.
> 
> Rivkat, I really hope this is at least CLOSE to what you were hoping for. Happy Holidays.

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

_****There is an Instinct in a woman to love most her own child - and an instinct to make any child who needs her love, her own. - Robert Brault****_

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Grams, I’m home! And I’ve brought along Jana’s latest stray!”

Jarod winced as the young woman yelled out her greeting the moment they walked in the front door of the large Victorian home.

“Sylvie Diane Winchester, I am blind not deaf,” came a calm voice from the room to their left, “so there is no need to announce your arrival loud enough for Mr. Herman next door to hear you.” An older African American woman stepped into the hall, clearly displeased. “And unless our guest has four legs and fur he is *not* a stray and you owe him an apology at the very least.” She paused, her eyebrow quirked expectantly.

Sylvie’s pale cheeks were bright red as she glanced up at Jarod. “Sorry,” she apologized. She turned back to the older woman. “Mikki called me her favorite stray when I moved in,” she muttered petulantly.

The older woman smiled gently. “And you’d been in and out of this house for six years before you moved in so it was a term of affection and you know it. This young man is just being introduced to us and that is not the first impression we want to give him. Is it?”

“No, Ma’am.” 

“Good girl.” The older woman held out her hand and Jarod grasped it automatically. “Mr. Parks? I’m Constance Johnson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Jarod wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when he agreed to meet Sylvie’s grandmother to ask about a possible spare room, but Constance wasn’t it. Where Sylvie was nearly albino in coloring: milk-pale skin, white blonde hair and pale blue eyes, Constance Johnson was dark skinned with dark brown hair, and eyes gone milky and unfocused. The eyes were, honestly, the only thing that matched with Jarod’s expectations, as he'd been warned the older woman was blind. _"Not that it slowed her down any,"_ according to Sylvie. 

“No, Mr. Parks,” Constance’s amused voice broke through his thoughts, addressing his unasked questions as if reading his mind, “Sylvie isn’t my blood grandchild, but I claim her. She’s been a part of our extended family since she and my granddaughter were seventeen, and I swear she doesn’t tell people just so she can watch their reactions the first time they meet me.

“I’m a sociologist, Grams,” Sylvie protested with a wink and grin at Jarod, “what do you expect?”

“Better manners,” Constance countered without pause.

Jarod had a feeling it was an old, good-natured argument. “That’s all right, Ms. Johnson. It’s my fault for making assumptions.”

“Constance,” she corrected with a smile. “Only my students call me Ms. Johnson.” She stepped back and gestured to the room she’d come from. “If you’d care to join me in the parlor, I do have some questions for you. Jana spoke highly of you, but I prefer to meet potential boarders myself before making any decisions.”

Jarod nodded, then grimaced at his faux pas. “Yes, Ma’am,” he answered, ignoring Sylvie’s knowing smirk in favor of moving past them and heading into the indicated room. He hesitated before taking a seat, waiting to see where the older woman preferred.

Constance moved across the room with confidence, Sylvie trailing behind her, and settled into a high backed arm chair across from a comfortable love seat. Jarod took his place on the love seat and waited.

"Sylvie," Constance said with a knowing smile. "I don't need an audience for this. Why don't you head upstairs and see what Aziz is making for dinner?"

"But, Grams," the young woman cajoled from behind the chair. "You don't know anything about this guy. He could be... seven feet tall and four-hundred pounds, with scars and prison tattoos. You might need protection."

Constance chuckled and shook her head. "Sylvie Diane," she said with amused exasperation. "If I know Jana, Mr. Parks is a clean cut young man with a sweet smile and... How did she put it? Oh yes, the most expressive, brown, puppy-dog eyes she'd ever seen on a grown man."

Jarod could feel his cheeks heat at the description. Jana Monroe was a vivacious red-head with a tenacious demeanor, and a temper that rivaled Miss Parker on a bad day. She was also the Services Supervisor at The Haven of St. Anthony of Padua, a small clinic that specialized in providing medical and social services for displaced, troubled, and, often homeless, veterans. St Anthony’s had resources on site to feed and house a total of twenty vets full time, while providing medical and psychiatric services to a multitude of others. They served at least one hot meal a day, and Jana worked tirelessly to connect the vets with other agencies who could help them if they wished. She also spent far too much time trying to make the funds stretch to continue to provide what services they could. 

Jarod had been working at St Anthony’s for three and a half weeks now as a physical therapist (and general handy-man for any odd jobs that needed to be done), and Jana had been thrilled to have his help. He’d become something of an unofficial sounding board for the young woman as they worked together setting therapy schedules and locating resources for their various clients. When she’d found out that he was living in a small motel on the outside of town, she’d immediately contacted Constance and arranged a meeting. Apparently, Jana had been talking to Constance about him as much as she’d been talking to him about Constance. He couldn’t help but wonder just what Jana had said.

Sylvie giggled, and Jarod narrowed his eyes at her mock menacingly – which made her giggle all the harder.

“Quit teasing each other,” Constance scolded. “And Sylvie… off you go. Tell Aziz we’ll have a guest for dinner and to be careful with the spices.”

“Right, keep dinner mild so the new guy won’t spontaneously combust. On it.” Sylvie leaned in and kissed Constance on the cheek, before nearly skipping out the door. 

Jarod started to speak, only to stop at a raised finger from Constance. He watched as she silently counted. He heard a floor board creak and smiled, ready to continue whatever conversation the older woman was wanting. But Constance was still intently listening to something Jarod couldn’t hear. He kept silent, watching. 

After a few long moments, Constance broke the silence. “Sylvie Diane, you can interrogate Mr. Parks at dinner. Now scoot!” she called out.

Jarod stared at the door, confused, until Sylvie’s voice drifted in from the hallway.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

His eyes widened in amazement.

“Five, four, three…” Constance counted softly. Another sound, this time farther away and then the sound of a door quietly closing. “And we’re finally free from far too curious ears,” she confirmed. 

“How?”

“I’ve lived in this house for forty years,” she said with a smile. “I’ve learned all the little creaks, groans, and noises it makes – especially when there’s a child trying to be sneaky about something. Sylvie’s learned about the floor board that squeaks, but she forgets about the one between there and the stairs that gives a little click when it’s stepped on.”

“And you heard the squeak, but not the click,” Jarod guessed, “and knew that she was still where she could hear.”

“Exactly,” Constance praised. “Jana said you were intelligent. So, tell me, Mr. Jarod Parks, what brought you to our little corner of Wisconsin?”

“The job, actually,” he answered easily. “I’d been looking for a place to get some experience after finishing my studies, and a friend mentioned St Anthony’s, said it might be a place to start. So, I took a chance and here I am.”

“Um hum,” the older woman said noncommittally. 

Her response startled him. “Ma’am?”

“Mr. Parks,” she began in a slow, mild tone that immediately set Jarod’s instincts on high alert. “Let me tell you a few things about myself. I was the eldest of five children and I helped raise my four younger brothers after my momma passed away. I raised four children of my own, two boys and two girls, and what the boys didn’t think of, the girls did. After they were grown, I spent six and a half years teaching English Literature to hormonally driven pre-teens, who were more interested in who was going to what party that weekend than in what some dead white guy wrote about the human condition long before they were born.”

“I don’t understand…”

“I’m saying,” she interrupted, “that if I have not learned by now to separate the truth from a carefully crafted obfuscation, then I wasn’t paying attention. And I assure you, Mr. Parks, I was paying very close attention. In fact, my younger son maintains to this day that my actual degree is a PhD in Uncovering Half-truths, with a specialization in Catching the Teenaged Male of the Species Red-Handed. And you, young man…” she chuckled. “Well, I don’t believe you have malicious intent, but I do believe you’re not telling me the truth. So, would you care to try again?”

Jarod would admit he was stunned and uncertain how to proceed. But, he was a Pretender. He had been trained to think on his feet and to run the probabilities of every potential course of action. It was second nature now, the ability to read a situation and act for the best outcome. He hoped he was reading this situation correctly, as Constance Johnson was definitely a woman outside of his experience. “Three months ago, rumors of issues at St Anthony’s were brought to my attention; rumors of funds that should have been going to the care of the soldiers coming to St Anthony’s suddenly… vanishing. I spent two months checking sources, back tracking funding and expenditures; I think I know what’s going on, but I wanted to be sure before going any further. So I came here to see things for myself, to make sure that what I was finding in my research matched with what actually happening.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. 

“It seems to be worse than I had heard.”

“In what way?” she asked calmly.

“It’s not just money that’s disappearing.” He sighed. “The medications are being shorted and what is being obtained is substandard at best.”

“Jana would never allow such a thing,” Constance said firmly, back straightening as she glared in Jarod’s direction.

“No, Ma’am,” he reassured, “not if she *knew* about it. She knows the medication supplies are being shorted, and that they aren’t proving as effective, but she has no idea exactly why. From what I’ve been able to find out, the problems seem to start higher up.”

“Wyatt Hobbert,” Constance actually growled the name, mouth tightening in a disgusted line. 

“Yes, Ma’am. I believe so.”

Wyatt Hobbert was the owner and operator of St Anthony’s. He’d turned the failing non-profit into a viable treatment center, with the help of several old college friends – who knew that even if the venture failed they’d come out on top from the tax write-offs alone. Once the center had been firmly established, Wyatt had bought out or bought off the others and turned it into his own private little kingdom. He had no direct contact with the staff beyond the occasional ‘pep talk’ with Jana and the other staff; but you’d never know that from the public relations spots that ran once a day, every day and twice on Sundays. 

The nepotism was strong as well: his son Nelson was supposedly the center’s manager, but Wyatt was the one clearly making the big decisions; Wyatt’s brother supplied the staff uniforms; his sister oversaw the meals both internally and for the outreach program, and; a cousin worked for the certification agency that had cleared the facility when Hobbert had taken over. Jarod had met Nelson once and was surprised by the dissimilarity between the two men. Where Wyatt was broad-shouldered, tanned and persuasive, Nelson was small and nondescript - an easily overlooked shadow behind his father’s power. 

Jarod had explored all those connections, but couldn’t find anything concrete to link either Wyatt or his family directly to the issues St Anthony’s was having. However, it was hard to believe Wyatt didn’t at least *know* what was going on.

“My husband helped build St Anthony’s, Mr. Parks,” Constance began slowly, pulling Jarod from his thoughts. “My children and grandchildren have worked there, as volunteers and staff, for years. I’ve helped feed, clothe and teach some of the brave souls that found their way to its door. I will not have it brought low because someone decided they needed a… a tax write off,” she finished sharply.

“That’s why I’m here, Ms. Johnson,” Jarod assured the older woman.

“Now that,” she said with a knowing smile, “I believe.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Jarod,” Jana called out with a welcoming smile. “How are you settling in at Constance’s place?”

Jarod looked up from his paper work and grinned. “Really well. Though I’m still not entirely sure why she keeps asking how I feel about travel and younger women.”

Jana’s laughter was bright and joyful. “She still has an unmarried daughter who travels a lot for her work. Told you she liked you. But then, she did put you in Keshaun’s room right off so you must have seriously impressed her. ” 

He shrugged, embarrassed.

“Has she added you to the cooking roster yet?” Jana asked as she started through the files, clearly searching for something.

“I have this Thursday’s dinner.”

“So soon?” Jana startled, turning to look at him. “Yep, you’ve been adopted. Welcome to the Johnson extended family.” She grinned and went back to her searching, “A week and a half… I think you may be the fastest adoptee yet. It took me three weeks to be put on the cooking roster.”

“So it’s a big deal?” he asked, confused.

“Oh yeah. Means you’re not a guest anymore, you’re family. Feel honored, Constance doesn’t adopt just anybody. Ah HAH!” she crowed in triumph as she pulled a folder from the filing cabinet. “Ok, off to do ordering. Anything physical therapy needs?”

“More therapists and better equipment?” he said playfully.

“Dream on,” Jana shot back. “We’re doing good to get all the meds we order, and you think we’ll be able to get better equipment? Only reason we got you is because you came cheap,” she teased. “Seriously, anything?”

Jarod shook his head. “I’m good.”

“Yeah, you are,” Jana said honestly. “But don’t let it go to your head. Staff meeting at one, don’t forget.” And with that, she was back out the door, leaving Jarod to his scheduling. He glanced over at the filing cabinet Jana had pulled the file from. Now he knew where to start looking.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Wisconsin?” Miss Parker’s voice was sharp as she looked at Broots. “Why the hell would Jarod be in Wisconsin in December?”

Broots shrugged. “Don’t know, but that’s seems to be where he is. Northwest Wisconsin near Chippewa Falls.”

“So, Christmas in Wisconsin,” Miss Parker muttered. “What fun.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Mr. Jarod,” a little voice called from the hallway, “Nana said it’s time to decorate the tree and you has’ta come down.”

“I has’ta, do I?” Jarod teased as he knelt before the little girl. 

Her tight red curls bounced around her face as she nodded vigorously. “Nana said so,” she announced seriously. Emma Westell was Constance’s five year old great granddaughter, who was staying with her adult sister in the house next door. Jarod loved her boundless joy and playful nature.

He moved back to his laptop, closed the program he'd been working on and locked down the laptop. While he trusted everyone in the house, he also knew from long experience it was better not to take unnecessary chances. That done, he turned back to the little girl. "Well we better get going then. It's never good to disobey Nana, is it?"

“Nuh uh,” she confirmed. “Specially this close to Christmas. She’s got Santa on speed-dial,” Emma confided, wide eyed. She grabbed his hand and tugged. “Come on. We gots’ta hurry or Sissa will eat all the special cookies cause she says baby needs ‘em. I think she’s fibbing which is naughty but Nana says that it’s okay ‘cause she’s got baby brain.”

Jarod carefully closed the door to his room before following the little girl down the stairs into the controlled chaos of tree decorating. Constance sat on the couch with her very pregnant great grand-daughter, Nicole – Emma’s adult sister – who was due before the end of the year, and was counting down the days. Aziz and Hanaa were helping Sylvie untangle garland, while Constance’s grand-daughter, Rochelle, and her husband hung lights on the fresh-cut tree. Jana and her boyfriend sat on the floor sorting ornaments and putting hangers on them. It felt… good.

Nicole looked up and smiled at the pair as they trailed down the stairs. “Em, don’t pull him down the stairs. If you break him, he won’t be able to help you hang up stars.”

The little girl immediately released Jarod’s hand, making him laugh. “She’s teasing you, Emma. You won’t break me, I promise.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in a warm blur of decorating, and sharing stories about the various ornaments and family traditions. When Jana asked about holiday traditions in Jarod’s family he wasn’t sure how to respond. “I don’t remember us really having any,” he answered truthfully.

“Well then,” Constance said firmly, drawing attention away from Jarod. “You’ll just have to make some of your own with us.” She then went on to talk about some of the Christmases she and her children had celebrated. She took obvious delight in relaying embarrassing stories about Deena, Emma and Nicole’s grandmother, and Rochelle, their mother, which had the girls laughing and offering their own stories of more recent holidays. 

Jarod settled back in the chair with his hot cider and listened, pulled in to the easy feeling of family. 

A soft kiss to his cheek startled him and he looked up to find Jana grinning at him. She held a small sprig of green holly with white berries on it over Jarod’s head. “Mistletoe. Serious Christmas magic,” she intoned with a playful glint in her eye.

He quirked an eyebrow at her, confused.

“You has’ta kiss if you’re under the mistletoe,” Emma intoned from her place curled, half asleep against Constance’s side. “It’s the rules. And you gots’ta obey the rules! ‘Specially at Christmas. Right, Nana?”

Constance hugged the little girl. “That’s right,” she said seriously. “If you want Santa to come, you have to be extra good, and that means obeying the rules.”

He looked up at Jana then back at the little girl. “Okay,” he capitulated. “As long as Jana promises to keep Hector over there from beating me up for kissing his girlfriend,” he joked.

Hector lifted his glass of spiked eggnog. “Christmas pass, dude. Mistletoe overrules everything.”

Grinning, Jarod stood and gave Jana a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, boss.”

She just rolled her eyes. “Don’t think that’s getting you out of helping with inventory on Monday, buster.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Any further response was cut off by Sylvie’s call of ‘food’ from the dining room. Jarod crossed and helped Nicole off the couch, and then escorted her and Constance to the table. He settled in between them, chatting amiably. Later, through half-lidded eyes, he watched the others as they said grace. He wondered what it would have been like, what *he* would have been like, if he had been able to grow up in a family like this, instead of at the Center. He could run the scenarios, research and observe, but those accomplishments would never give him the same feeling of pride and belonging as he had right now. 

As if sensing the turn of his thoughts, Constance’s hand tightened around his as she finished the blessing. “And we thank you for this family of the heart you have seen fit to bring into our lives. Amen.”

“Amen.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Ok, this is just too crazy to be a coincidence.”

Jarod looked up from his charting at Jana’s voice. “What?”

She settled into the chair in front of his desk and slid a folder across to him. “Take a look at these and tell me what you see.”

In the folder were copies of invoices for the medications the clinic ordered. The numbers didn’t match. “What am I looking at?”

The young woman leaned back in the chair running her hands through her hair. “The hand written sheets are the notes of what we needed to order. The computer printouts are screen prints of what I actually submitted the last three times I ordered medication. The thinner sheets are the invoices that were sent with the shipments, the *shorted* shipments.”

Jarod nodded looking at the various sheets, comparing them to what he’d found in his own searches. The screen prints provided another missing piece. He’d seen two different drug orders going out for St Anthony’s when he started his investigation but both had matched exactly between what was ordered and what was delivered. The larger shipment always went to the main facility, while the smaller had been delivered to a secondary location that was listed as a holding location for Hobbert Enterprises. Jana's hand written sheets and screen prints matched exactly. The invoices were short, but short in exactly the amounts that had been ordered for the secondary location on each date. 

“Jana, who do your orders go through?”

“Mr. Hobbert. He does the ordering and has to okay all major purchases,” she answered.

“Have you shown him these?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t just a glitch in the ordering system or the distributor not having enough stock on hand.” She blew out a frustrated breath. “But there’s no note of short shipments or low stock – so something else is going on. I’m gonna have to bring this to his attention. He’s not gonna be happy.”

“Well, he is the owner,” Jarod offered. “It is kind of his job to deal with this sort of thing.”

She chuckled. “Yeah. That’s why he gets the big bucks, I guess.” She reached out and took back the file. “Guess I better go set up an appointment with him. Wish me luck.”

“Go get ‘em, boss,” he said with a grin. “You can do this. Just remember who you’re fighting for.”

“Thanks, Jarod.” With that she headed out the door… and Jarod started planning his *own* meeting with Mr. Wyatt Hobbert.

That evening Jarod did some further digging into the secondary location, but had no luck finding anything further. Wyatt Hobbert was listed as the owner, as he was on all Hobbert Enterprise holdings, but that didn't mean he had direct ties to the facility. However, after some quick calculations on what the resell and street value might be on drugs diverted from the Main St Anthony's location, Jarod went digging into the Hobbert Enterprise's financial records. The money was there, buried under layers and layers of shell companies, contracts and multiple bank accounts, but it *was* there. Unfortunately, whoever was doing the hiding was damned good. Jarod could tell it came back to the main Hobbert family eventually, but he couldn't tell to which one.

It was a frustrating puzzle... and Jarod had always enjoyed a good puzzle.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Look, Chief Gardner.”

“Gartner,” the older man corrected, glaring at the expensively clad woman standing before him.

“Right. Gartner,” Miss Parker said dismissively. “This man is a menace.” She pointed at the picture she’d placed on his desk. “We’ve tracked him to this general area, and now we need your help to find him.”

"This is a pretty open area of the country, Ma’am,” the chief agreed. “And we’re not so small a town that we notice every stranger that comes in. Unless you can give me something more to go on, there’s not much I can do to help you. Unless this guy has committed a crime,” he shrugged helplessly. 

“If he hasn’t yet,” Miss Parker muttered, “he will eventually.”

The officer stood. “And if he does, you’ll be the first person I call.” He ushered the woman out of his office with a firm but polite hand. “Until then, why don’t you folks check with Sal down at the Hyatt and enjoy some of our hospitality for a while. The place is real nice, clean and comfortable. Lot of travelers stay there when they first hit town. Maybe he or some of his staff will recognize your guy. And I’ll distribute this picture to my guys and see if anyone’s seen him. Fair enough?”

Syd easily stepped between the local police chief and the increasingly frustrated Miss Parker. “That’s more than fair, Chief Gartner,” he replied, shaking the offered hand. “And do please call us if you hear anything.” He fell into step behind Miss Parker, pulling Broots from his discussion with one of the police tech officers. “We’ll keep in touch.”

The chief watched the three trail from the building, only moving once he saw the door close behind them. “Vandegriff!”

The young officer looked up. “Yes, Sir?”

He held out the picture. “Take this, make twenty or so copies and then see if any of the local first stop flop houses or motels have seen this guy. It’s a long shot, but at least then we can honestly say we tried.”

Damion Vandegriff took the offered image with a brisk nod. “Yes, Sir. I might check in with St Anthony’s and St. Vincent’s as well. If he’s on the run, he might try their shelters. Easier to keep from being recognized. You never know.”

“Good thinking,” the older officer praised. “We’ll make a decent investigator out of you yet, kid.”

It took everything Damion had not to roll his eyes. There were days being the newest officer on the force seriously sucked.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jarod watched as Wyatt Hobbert left his office and got into his expensive sports car. The man was a widower who lived alone in his oversized ranch style house and kept a girlfriend in style in an expensive condo across town. He spent far too much time in his office making deals after most businesses were closed and had the money to show for it. He was ruthless and wasn't above using strong arm tactics if it would get him what he wanted but he wasn’t directly involved in anything illegal that Jarod could find. Well, aside from what was going on at St Anthony’s. But even those couldn't be traced directly back to him. Jarod was still trying to figure out just what the man was up to. There were just still too many variables for him to make a solid decision.

So tonight he was going to do something a bit more… proactive. He’d already been to the man’s house and rigged up several surprises for him. Hopefully, it would get him the information he was looking for, or at least give him a better place to start. The trip to the house was peaceful, the night sky bright with stars as Christmas music floated out of the car speakers from a local radio station. He parked in the carefully hidden area he’d scouted earlier in the day and then waited for Hobbert to finally arrive home. Wyatt Hobbert was a creature of habit, something that worked in Jarod's favor. He left his home early every morning, stopping for coffee and the paper at a local coffee shop where they had his order waiting. He ate lunch in his office or in business lunches where he'd wine and dine potential assests. The only time it left the office at 5 was on Thursday evenings. He'd leave the office, stop for take-out – and to chat up the waitresses – at the local Thai place, then come home to eat dinner in front of the television; while doing paperwork until he got too tired to stay awake any longer.

This Thursday was no different. Well, at least not yet, anyway.

Jarod flipped on the surveillance camera, and waited. Once Jarod was certain Hobbert was completely engrossed in his paperwork, he pressed the first button on the remote, setting things in motion. He watched through the hidden cameras as the television image slowly shifted from the stock market and news channel, to a snow-filled screen with half-visible images of combat and guns. The sound pulled Hobbert from his forms and he stared at the tv in confusion. Jarod hit the button again and the image went back to normal. Hobbert blinked at the screen, fiddled with the remote for a moment, then went back to his paperwork. Jarod waited a few long minutes before flipping another switch, this one flipping off lights in the far section of the house. He left them off for a count of ten before flipping them on and off a few times in rapid succession, blinking out a morse code pattern of SOS before leaving them on once more. Hobbert noticed, turning a confused look at the now lit hallway.

Jarod used the distraction and flipped the tv to snow once again for a split second, before turning it back. Hobbert jumped at the sudden noise, looking around wildly.

"Not Funny, guys!" he shouted at no-one in particular. He flipped off the tv and settled in to his paperwork again.

Jarod gave him ten long, uninterrupted minutes, watching as Hobbert relaxed back into his routine. Once the older man was completely focused on his paperwork Jarod hit the final control. The house went completely dark and the television sprang to life with a pre-recorded program of sound-bites and images Jarod had compiled just for this: a former resident of St Anthony’s talking about how the medications had stopped working shortly after the Haven changed hands; a carefully distorted recording of Jana talking about the discrepancies in the funds they were promised and what they were actually given to work with, and the ongoing issue with the medications, paired with images of the aging equipment and facilities; and, the sounds of a young man caught in the throes of a flashback as the staff attempt to calm him. Hobbert sat stock still, eyes pinned to the screen, expression growing more and more confused the longer he watched.

“How could you let this happen, Wyatt?” Jarod’s altered voice issued from the screen. “You were supposed to be protecting them, not lining your pockets.”

Hobbert shook his head in denial, the light from the television casting his horrified features into stark relief. “I don’t… I didn’t…” He shot up from the couch and paced in the darkened room. “Who are you?” he demanded, anger replacing fear. “Where did this footage come from?”

“Does it matter?” Jarod asked, his voice issuing from the top of the line surround-sound system that graced Hobbert’s home.

“YES!” he yelled into the darkness. “I want to know who’s responsible for this.” He ran frustrated hands through his hair then pointed at the images flashing on the television. More scenes of the state of the facilities, pictures of the men and women they were attempting to help, flashes of the bills and shortfalls, and letters asking for support for the facility that they sent out year after year to attempt to make up the shortfalls slowly faded in and out on the screen. “THIS is not the truth!" Wyatt yelled. "I get the reports and the accounts. I go over everything, trying to find one more place where I can provide *more*!” He glared at the television. “SHOW ME your proof and I’ll tell you *how* I know this isn’t right! Stop hiding behind tricks and threats and MEET ME, Damn It!”

“Why?” Jarod asked, intrigued in spite of himself. What had he missed? “Why should I believe anything you have to say? I’ve seen the proof with my own eyes, Mr. Hobbert. Have you?”

“Apparently not,” the older man admitted roughly. “But if someone is keeping the Haven of St Anthony from doing what it was meant to do, I want to know. I *need* to know. I promised Isaiah’s mother and I won’t fail him again.”

Jarod blinked. Isaiah wasn’t a name he knew in connection with Wyatt Hobbert. It appeared there were variables he’d missed, variables that could change everything. “An exchange then,” he offered, still on his guard but willing to listen. “Tell me about that promise and I’ll arrange for you to get copies of what I know so far.”

“If you try and blackmail me with this…”

“If I wanted to blackmail you, Mr. Hobbert,” Jarod interrupted an edge of steel clear in his voice even through the distortion. “I think I have more than enough to do so already, don’t you?”

Hobbert nodded, settling on the couch with a resigned air. “Isaiah is my eldest son, and he’s why I bought St Anthony’s… so he’d have a place to come to if he ever decided to come home.”

“Nelson is your eldest son,” Jarod countered.

Wyatt shook his head. “That’s what everyone believes. I was a selfish bastard back when he was born, I know that now, probably knew it then,” he chuckled mirthlessly. “I gave up happiness and love for money and connections. Worst trade I ever made. I left a selfless woman and a precious little boy for a cold, distant debutant whose father needed a man to pass his company to.”

Jarod was surprised by the self-loathing in the older man’s tone.

“But that wonderful woman never held it against me. She came when I called, took what scraps I could give her and my son. She made sure no one ever made the connection between them and me so not to endanger my prospects. And even though she never asked, I made damned sure they never lacked for money. I’ve learned since then that money isn’t really a fair exchange for love. 

“Isaiah joined the military. He was big and strong, and smart, the very things that the Special Forces look for. She was so proud of him, and so scared. He was on the front lines, deep in the thick of things. He saw things no child should. He did things that shattered his soul until the only way he could silence the screams was drugs. She called me then, when he came home hearing voices in the night, seeing enemies around every corner, not eating, not sleeping, becoming more and more unpredictable.” He looked at the ceiling. “You have to understand, I tried, but it was too little too late. I promised her on her death bed that I’d take care of him, look after him, but when she died he just… vanished. I hired detectives, specialists; anyone I thought might be able to find him, discreetly, of course. They finally found him living on the streets, broken, alone. I tried to bring him home, but he’d have none of it and I was too worried about what my stock-holders would think if they found out - let alone what my enemies would do.

“So, I let him go, but I made sure that there were places for him to go *to*,” he said earnestly. “Through side companies and subsidiaries I provide money for several shelters, I make sure that there’s funding for clinics and mental health assistance in the cities where he’d been seen. I decided if I couldn’t help him directly, maybe I could help another father’s son find a home.” He swallowed, tears clear on his face even on the screens in Jarod’s car. 

“And then I came home. I came home and it was like a sign. The Haven of St Anthony of Padua, the patron saint of lost items, the poor and travelers. How heartbreakingly appropriate. So I bought it. I bought it and turned it around, and tried to make it something that he might trust if he ever came back home.” He wiped at his face angrily. “If someone is trying to tear that down I want to know. I *demand* to know! I will not have it! So SHOW ME!” he yelled. “Show me what’s going on right under my self-center nose so I can try and make it right! Help me make it right if you know what’s happening. Please?”

The new information swirled around in Jarod’s head, slotting suspicions and half-formed ideas into place with a sharp snap. He’d been wrong, not totally wrong, but wrong enough he needed to rethink his next move. But first, he had some information to exchange, as promised – and an unexpected ally to bring in to the fold.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jarod had asked Sydney once what made a family. He’d gotten the standard answer about fathers and mothers, and blood relationships. How family provided a stable environment for learning and social development. He’d asked Sydney if that made them family. Sydney had said no – and Jarod had believed it, accepted it. He’d resigned himself to the fact he was alone and probably always would be.

He’d been very young at the time.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“You’re thinking so hard I can smell the gears burning,” Constance teased him as she stood in the doorway to his room.

“What makes a family, Constance?” he asked, voice small and uncertain.

“Lots of things,” she answered with a smile. “May I?” she asked.

He rose, and brought her into the room, leading her to a chair and settling on the floor beside her.

“Some people say family is just your blood relation,” she began slowly, “the ones that have a direct link to you and yours through birth and marriage. But where does that leave the adopted ones, the ones that claim you because they’ve got no one else? Chelle, Nicole and Em’s mamma, was a scared and pregnant sixteen year old when Deena and Vicki took her in. She’d been on the streets so long that no one wanted to claim her, and she didn’t want anyone to try. But Vicki, Lord bless her, saw Chelle’s potential and they took her in. Now, she may not be blood, but that sweet girl is as much my grandchild as David’s children or Lawrence’s step sons.”

It took Jarod a moment to place all the names. Lawrence was Constance’s oldest boy, career military with a wife and two step sons. David and Deena were Constance’s twins and the middle children. Vicki was Deena’s wife and Chelle was the first of their two foster daughters.

“I have friends of my blood children who still call me momma, or nana or gran – and I happily claim every one of them. I love them, faults and quirks and all – just like I do my own blood children.” She shrugged with a sheepish grin. “My children of heart.”

“Family takes care of family, don’t they?”

“Sometimes,” she answered with a sad smile. “Sometimes families hurt each other more than any stranger could. They treat strangers better then they treat their own flesh and blood. Maybe it’s because they know the places to hit so it hurts the most, maybe it’s just because they feel it’s the only way they can find their own path.” She reached out and Jarod caught her hand. She squeezed his hand gently. “Why the questions, Jarod? What’s got you so tied up in knots?”

“I made a mistake,” he admitted. “I thought I knew… I thought I had everything figured out. But I was wrong.”

“Then you pick yourself up, look to see where things started going wrong, and find a way to make it right,’ she told him firmly. “Mistakes happen, Jarod. You’re only human and humans make mistakes. It’s only a problem, when you don’t learn from them.”

He nodded.

“Now, why don’t you come down and help Sylvie and Em make some Christmas cookies?” She rose from the chair, not letting go of his hand. “They’re going to be part of the gift boxes that St Anthony’s will be giving out this weekend for Christmas, so there’s a *lot* of baking to do.”

Jarod linked his arm with hers and walked them both towards the kitchen. “Not sure I’ve ever made Christmas cookies before, but I’ve been told I follow directions pretty well.”

“Somehow I find that hard to believe,” she teased. “You strike me more as a ‘bend the rules until they break’ type.”

“Never. I’m the soul of rule following.”

“Even *I* can tell that’s BS, Jarod,” Sylvie yelled from the kitchen.

“Sylvie Diane! Language!” Constance scolded, leading to a good-natured round of teasing and more scolding.

Sylvie draped a ‘Santa’s Helper’ apron over his head and showed him the cookie recipes they were using, telling him he was in charge of chocolate chips until they saw proof he was a good cookie maker. Jarod nodded, warmed by more than just the heat of the oven.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Hey Jarod!”

He turned at the sound of his name, smiling at Jana as she hurried down the hall to catch up with him. “Yes, boss?”

She smacked him in the arm with the folder she was carrying. “You have been around Sylvie too much,” she muttered. “Anyway. Mr. Hobbert wants a copy of all your therapy logs and any expenditures you’ve had since you started.”

“Doesn’t he already have it?” he asked, surprised by the request. “I mean, I turned one in just Friday.”

“Oh. Not Nelson Hobbert, his dad, Wyatt Hobbert,” she corrected. “You know, the big big boss. Not sure why, I thought everything went through him for final approval, but he’s requested copies, so apparently not. Either that or they’re getting ready for an audit of some type. Anyway… just get your most recent copies to me and I’ll forward them on.”

“Sure thing.” He felt another missing piece slot into place. She wasn’t the only one who’d thought that Wyatt was the final sign off. From everything he’d found in his research that was the case, but apparently things weren’t always as they appeared. Something he knew… but had lost sight of this time.

Jana started to walk away then turned back abruptly. “FYI, there was some lady here looking for you yesterday. Dark hair, sexy corporate raider wardrobe, way more attitude than one person should have. Sound familiar?”

He sighed. He’d known Miss Parker would be showing up eventually, but he’d hoped to be long gone by then. “Possibly.”

“She was asking if I knew you and where you might be staying.” She gave him a mischievous smirk. “She looked a little too much ‘psycho, cook your pet rabbit’ ex-girlfriend to me, so I totally lied. If that was wrong, I’ve still got her card if you want to contact her. I’d advise against it, but hey, what you do is on your head. Unless, of course, it results in the rearranging of furniture and makes it hard for Constance to get around – at which point I will kick your very attractive posterior to the curb.”

“Understood,” he said, a bit of blush heating his cheeks.

“Ok, back to work, you,” she teased. “We’ve got too much to do and too little time to do it in. Story of my life.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“It’s a bit of a long shot,” Broots said, eyes on his computer screen to avoid making eye contact with Miss Parker. “But the guy at the Dew Drop thought the guy he rented to might have been Jarod but he couldn’t find any of his receipts to verify what name was used. He thinks the guy said he was moving into a more ‘long term’ arrangement apartment.”

“Did he know where said ‘long term arrangement apartment’ might be?”

Broots instinctively ducked before delivering the information he’d been given. “Not exactly. But he did narrow it down to two or three possibilities… as long as Jarod stayed local. There’s a lot more such places two towns over.”

“He’s here,” Miss Parker said with confidence. “I can feel it.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Aziz and Sylvie stood to either side of Constance, just inside the open door.

“Evening, Ms. Johnson,” the young police officer said politely. “I have some folks here who think you might be harboring a dangerous fugitive.”

The older woman tilted her head, brow furrowing. “Now, Damion,” she said indulgently, “you know that all my borders are carefully vetted before they’re even allowed to come and interview. I can’t be too careful, especially now a days.”

“I know, Ma’am,” the officer said apologetically, “but the chief asked me to come and check with you anyway - seeing as how this guy’s apparently really good at fooling people.” Constance raised an eyebrow at the comment and Damon actually ducked his head and blushed. “I know. But this guy’s a lot more savvy than a group of idiot teens, Ms. Johnson. And if he’s even done half the stuff in the file they brought, he’s dangerous. Just don’t want to see you getting hurt.”

“That’s very sweet, Damion,” Constance replied with a reassuring smile. “But I’m not worried. Now, why don’t you all come in out of the cold, and you can tell me about this fugitive.” She stepped back, holding open the door for them. 

“Aziz,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m sure a cup of coffee would help our guests chase off the chill. Would you be a love and share some of the pot you just brewed?”

“Of course,” he turned to the strangers. “Do any of you take cream or sugar?”

“Black,” the dark haired female barked, almost daring the others to contradict her.

Aziz nodded and with a knowing smile at Sylvie he left them to settle their visitors in.

Sylvie watched the newcomers from Constance’s elbow, not liking the attitude off the woman who was obviously the one in charge. The older man looked ok, and the younger guy just looked… harried. Considering his boss, Sylvie could understand why. She almost felt sorry for Damion, knowing he’d been stuck carting these three around simply because he was the newest hire. Hazing… gotta love it.

“Now,” Constance began after settling into her favorite chair. “Tell me about this dangerous fugitive.”

Sylvie listened as the woman, Miss Parker, spun some bs about how Jarod was some unbalanced vigilante that needed to be taken back into custody. Yeah. No. Not even. She’d been around Jarod for several weeks now and the man was not even close to what this harpy was describing. And if *she* could tell that, she *knew* Grams could as well.

“So you see, Ma’am,” Damion added when the gal wound down, “we’d just like permission to look around, just check out who all’s living here.”

“Well,” Constance began with a smile. “You know the usual suspects, Damion. Patrice lives on the first floor in the pink bedroom next to my room. She’s my live in aid,” she explained for the new comers. “Being blind, I have to have help sometimes and it’s best that she’s nearby.”

Sylvie nearly snorted at the meek tone Constance was using. Little did they know….

“Aziz and his wife Hanaa live on the second floor near the larger kitchen. Aziz *loves* to cook and it seemed silly not to utilize his talents,” she confided. “He’s a trained chef, the lovely dear.” She reached out and ‘searched’ for Sylvie’s hand and the younger woman caught it, wrapping her fingers around it. “And dear Sylvie lives in the second room on that floor. It’s not much, but she says it’s a fair sight better than the apartment she was living in so it’s ‘all good’. Which makes me very concerned about where she was living before,” she scolded.

“Who’s in Keshaun’s old room now that he’s moved out to the dorms?” Damion asked.

“Are you kidding?” Sylvie answered back. “That place is a grandson shrine! She’s not gonna let *anyone* in there until Keshaun’s married and in a house of his own.”

Constance shook her head as Sylvie and Damion laughed. The two guys looked like they understood, while Miss Parker just looked bored… or constipated, Sylvie wasn’t sure which. 

About that time, Aziz arrived with the coffee. He handed her and Constance their cups with a sly wink where the others in the room couldn’t see it. He then offered the coffee to the others. Damion declined, which didn’t surprise Sylvie as the younger man was constantly being teased by his fellow officers about not liking coffee. The other three took the coffee and Sylvie waited eagerly for their reactions.

She took a sip of her own, surprised to taste a mildly sweet, spicy mix of coffee and toffee with just a hint of chocolate. She’d have to ask him about it later. Only after both she and Aziz had taken drinks did Miss Parker and crew even attempt to. Sylvie did a mental count-down, familiar with Aziz’s normal ‘bite you back’ coffee preferences. It never started out strong. But the burn built, like with his cooking. She couldn’t wait to watch.

“And there’s no one else in the house?” Damion asked, unaware of the building drama.

Constance shook her head, but Sylvie watched as Miss Parker’s eyes narrowed. Well, crap. The third floor, she must know about the apartment on the third floor. Time to spin… “Well, just the crazy guy in the attic.”

Miss Parker sat up straighter, eyes boring into Sylvie. “Crazy guy?”

“Sylvie Diane!”

“What,” she countered with a sheepish smile. “He’s my cousin. If I can’t call him crazy…”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. She’d claim Jarod as family and a cousin was family. And he had been doing some work in that upper attic room that, honestly, did sound kinda crazy. So… not a lie… not really.

“Which cousin?” Damion asked. “Antoinette’s boy? Marvin… Martin…”

“Marlin,” Sylvie confirmed with an eye-roll. “Poor kid.”

Damion nodded his agreement. “What is he now? Seventeen?”

“Almost eighteen according to him,” Sylvie said with a smirk. “Because seventeen and two months is *so* almost eighteen,” she added with another eye-roll. “He got stupid and his punishment was missing out on the family vacation. His folks thought maybe Grams would be able to straighten him out. We’ll see.”

Again, not exactly a lie. It was all true. Okay, so it had actually happened this summer, but if it put this psycho off Jarod’s trail, she was pretty sure Antoinette and Marlin would approve. Constance… probably not so much, but she’d deal with that once it happened.

“She managed to straighten out our class,” Damion admitted. “And if she could do that…”

“Much as I love these homey little catch up sessions,” Miss Parker’s voice broke into their conversation. “I’m here for a reason.” She stood and glared at Sylvie. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your reassurances at face value.” Her tone made it very clear she didn’t care if Sylvie forgave her or not. “But I’d like to check out those rooms for myself.”

“Damion,” Constance asked mildly. “Do you or they have a warrant?”

“Um… no, Ma’am.”

“Then I believe I will decline her request.”

“Excuse me?” Miss Parker snapped.

“I decline,” Constance repeated before taking a sip of her coffee. She savored it, ignoring the way Miss Parker growled at the obvious dismissal. 

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” Miss Parker countered. “I’ll come back with a warrant and go over every inch of this house with or without your approval.”

With a heartfelt sigh, Constance set down her coffee. “Aziz? Do you still have Wissam’s number at the Herald? I’m certain his readers would love to hear about this. Think of the backlash,” she said mildly. “Aggressive outsider threatens elderly blind woman after being denied access to her private residence.”

“He’s not with the Herald anymore,” Aziz told her with a vicious smirk towards Miss Parker. “He does investigative reporting for the channel sixteen news now. I’m sure his bosses would love the story. And his blog also has quite the following.”

“Are you seriously threatening me?” Miss Parker asked incredulously. “Ms. Johnson,” Parker began, trying to reign in her frustration. “You have no idea what you’re caught in the middle of. People around Jarod get hurt because he can’t leave well enough alone. Is that a risk you’re willing to take with your family? I’m not sure what Jarod’s up to this time, but I *will* find him. You can count on that.”

“Well you won’t find him here,” Constance told her flatly. 

“We’ll see about that,” Miss Parker challenged.

Constance carefully placed her cup on the side table and turned her milky eyes on the strangers in her home. “Young lady,” she began her voice velvet over steel. “I have survived protests and marches and sit-ins. I have walked the front lines in the hostile South where being not only a woman, but a black woman marching for civil rights put a target on my back. I have faced down scarier bullies than you, so do not try and intimidate me, *especially* in my own home! You will not win.”

Sylvie shivered at the unfamiliar tone coming from the normally gentle-spoken woman. This was the woman Mikki talked about, the one who laid down the law even as she hugged you close and reminded you that you were loved. This was the woman that had raised four kids, and started college in her fifties - just to prove to herself she could do it. This was the woman who faced down losing her sight and didn’t let the darkness slow her down one bit. And Sylvie was so damned proud that she could call her Grams. She hoped she had half of Grams’ fire when she was her age. 

Constance settled back into her chair and picked her cup back up as if nothing had happened. “Now,” she began, no trace of her earlier anger in her voice. “You may finish your coffee but then you *will* leave my home, and you are not welcome to return until you have learned some manners.”

Sylvie smirked when the younger guy in the woman’s entourage nearly choked on his coffee trying to stifle a laugh.

“You want a warrant, I’ll come back with a warrant,” Miss Parker reiterated, clearly not as amused by the reprimand. She grabbed her coffee and drained it in one angry go, before placing it down on the side table with a firm _thunk_. “Let’s go,” she snapped, already heading toward the door.

The older man offered a mute apology before following her, while the other man stopped in front of Aziz. “Um… the coffee was great, a bit strong and spicy but really good. I was wondering if you’d give me the name of it.”

“BROOTS!”

The man ducked his head at the bellow, and hurried out after her.

Damion shook his head. “I’m really sorry, Ms. Johnson, Sylvie. The chief said I had to. The older guy isn’t so bad, and the computer guy is actually kind of sweetly goofy,” he darted a glance at the open door. “But she’s a real bi…”

“WHAT THE HELL!?!” Miss Parker’s voice was sharp and followed by sputtering and coughing, and mumbled orders that didn’t carry to the people inside.

“I think the coffee just hit,” Sylvie said with a smirk.

It took Damion a moment to realize just what Sylvie meant, until he saw the too pleased look on Aziz’s face. He shook his head, trying to look stern, but it was ruined by his wide grin. “Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving gal.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was too dangerous now. Miss Parker was too close, had been in Constance’s home, threatening the older woman and her family. Parker was right, people got hurt around him and he couldn’t do that; not to Constance and her family. They were in danger just from him being here. He had to leave now, before someone got hurt. 

He waited until dark, moving silently down the stairs, avoiding the ones that gave tell-tale sounds that might alert anyone to what he was doing. He paused in the hallway, getting his bearings in the dark, knowing a misstep was sure to bring Constance out to stop him. He took a deep, calming breath and said a silent good-bye to these people who taken him in so readily.

“You better not be doing what I think you are,” came a familiar voice from the dark.

Jarod stilled, holding his breath and hoping she’d think she was mistaken.

“Jarod Martin Parks,” Constance called. “Do not think you can hide from me. I know every hiding place, nook and cranny in this old house, and can find them better blind than you could with all the lights on. Now put down your bag, and come join me.”

Jarod knew better than to argue with that tone. He’d only been around this eclectic little family for a few weeks, but he’d learned that ‘take no prisoners’ tone well. He put down his bag and headed into the parlor. He heard the click of the table lamp, turned on for his benefit, as he walked in and a soft yellow glow suffused the darkness. Constance was settled on the couch wrapped in a soft looking robe with a colorful blanket over her lap. She patted the cushion beside her. He complied without a word, settling beside her, eyes firmly on the floor in front of him.

“You know she’ll be watching the house,” she said gently.

He shrugged. He’d known, but he was sixty percent certain she’d be watching the balcony on the second floor with the escape tree, rather than the front door. She’d put Broots on the back of the house and Syd on the front. He’d be able to convince Syd to let him pass, he was eighty percent certain of that. A motherly hand stroked up his arm and across his shoulder. Her fingers slid through his hair and he unconsciously leaned into the touch. “I can’t let her or this situation hurt you and the others.” 

“Shouldn’t we get a say in that?”

He chuckled mirthlessly. “You don’t know Miss Parker. And the Hobberts don’t care who they hurt, I’ve already seen that several times.”

“And you’re not giving us enough credit,” she countered. “Jarod, family looks after its own.” She tugged a lock of his hair gently, “And in case you haven’t figured it out yet, young man, you’re family now.”

“You’ve only known me a few weeks, Constance,” he disputed, “and you don’t know who I am, not really.”

“I know enough,” she said gently. “You’re a good man, Jarod. You’re doing a very important and dangerous thing for people who can’t do it for themselves.” She cupped his cheek. “And you don’t have to do it alone.”

“I don’t want to risk…”

“Hush,” she interrupted. “You’re not going anywhere tonight, so just get yourself back upstairs and get some sleep. You work tomorrow and Jana’s expecting you bright and early.” She gave him a mischievous smile. “Besides, it’s your turn to cook dinner tomorrow and I expect to be dazzled, young man.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said with a bashful smile. “I’m still worried about this.”

“Worrying is fine,” she reassured, “but no running out without a word. You understand me?”

His smile grew and he nodded, leaning into her touch. “Yes, Ma’am, I do.”

“Good. Now off to bed. We’ll see you in the morning at breakfast.”

“Ok.” He rose, moving reluctantly from the warmth of her touch. “Good night, Constance,” he said softly.

“Grams,” she corrected.

“Grams,” he responded. “Good night, Grams.” 

“Good night, sweetheart. Sweet dreams.”

As he headed back up the stairs, listening to the sounds of Constance returning to her own room, he knew they would be.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The next morning was entertaining to say the least. Aziz made a huge thermos of coffee and took it out to the car that Broots had been sitting in all night. While Broots hadn’t been completely distracted, he did turn a blind eye to Jarod leaving the house. 

Aziz thanked him with the recipe for the special coffee blend.

Sylvie had driven him to work and showed him a back door into the facility that only the dedicated smokers really knew about, well, the smokers and security. Jarod took the back stairs two at a time, still grinning about Sylvie’s comments on the drive in concerning Miss Parker. They’d been accurate, if not exactly flattering. Hitting the third floor landing he took a moment to pull out his work ID and take off his coat. Opening the door he came face to face with a startled Jana.

“Do I want to know why you’re sneaking in the back way?” she asked. “I know it’s not because you’re late.”

“Long story,” Jarod hedged.

“You know,” Jana interrupted. “With everything else going on this morning, I don’t think I want to know.”

Jarod fell into step with her, walking towards their shared office. “What’s going on,” he asked, curious. “Anything I can help with?”

She shook her head. “No… but there’s a *big* shake-up happening,” she confided. She ushered him inside their office and closed the door. “Mr. Hobbert, Wyatt Hobbert came in today with a bunch of accountants and lawyers and started asking all kinds of questions about how long things have been coming up short and not being repaired.” She sat down heavily in the guest chair in front of Jarod’s desk. “Apparently, he *didn’t* know what had been going on. He said he’s here to ‘clean house’ and make sure things are being run the way he intended for them to be run.” She dropped her head into her hands. “I don’t know what to do, Jarod. I’ve been doing my best with what I’ve had, but I know it’s not going to be enough. I’m not sure what more I could have done.”

Jarod reached out and took hold of her hand. “I don’t think he’s talking about you, Jana. If he’s looking into things like you’re saying, he’s going to *see* that you’re not the issue here. And if not,” he reassured, “then we’ll do what we can to make him see all you’ve been doing. Promise.”

“Thanks.” She took a deep breath and gave him a tentative smile. “Well, I can’t hide in here forever, so I guess I better get out there. Have a good day. Hey, how about I take you to lunch today, as kind of a thank you?”

“You don’t have to,” he assured her, “but I’m not about to pass up a free lunch,” he teased.

She grabbed a folder and smacked him with it. “I don’t know why I put up with this abuse. Oh wait, I remember, you work cheap.”

Jarod’s laughter followed her out the door.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Hey, Mr. Work-a-holic. You’re making me look bad in front of the big boss.”

Jarod shook his head and finished the last of his reports, before looking up at a smirking Jana. “Not on purpose.”

“So you say now.” She tossed a wrapped box at him and he caught it completely on reflex. “But we’re two days before Christmas and you and I are officially off duty for the next five days, Mr. Hobbert’s orders. So grab your coat and come on. We are out of here!”

Jarod smiled and tucked the package in his messenger bag to open later. “Has it started snowing yet?” he asked as they headed to the elevator.

“Oh yeah. And apparently it’s only gonna get worse,” she confirmed. “I am *so* not getting snowed in here again.”

“Again?”

“Don’t ask.”

The elevator doors opened to a gun wielding Nelson Hobbert. 

Jarod reacted on instinct, placing himself between Jana and Hobbert. “Can I help you, Mr. Hobbert?”

“You can move out of the way,” he snarled, “so I can kill the backstabbing witch behind you.”

Jarod shook his head. “Um… not going to happen.”

“Then you can die with her.”

“Also not going to happen,” Jarod told him levelly.

“What did I do, Mr. Hobbert?” Jana asked quietly from behind Jarod.

“You know damn good and well what you did! You turned him against me,” he shouted. “He disowned me and is threatening to have me arrested! Me. His only son, supposed heir to his empire.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, clearly confused.

“It means that his father figured out who was skimming money and medications from St Anthony’s,” Jarod answered, eyes locked with Nelson’s. He watched as the man’s eyes widened in realization. “She didn’t know anything about this, Mr. Hobbert,” Jarod continued. “She still doesn’t. She just turned over what I found and left for her. Let her go.”

“Why should I?” Hobbert sneered. “She’s here. She knows something is going on.”

“Jarod?” Jana’s voice wavered.

“But not everything,” Jarod countered. “I’m the only one with everything. You let her go and I’ll give you all the information I have rather than turn it over to your father or to the police.”

“If I kill you both, it *still* doesn’t go to anyone else.”

Jarod chuckled darkly. “You really are an amateur at this, aren’t you Nelson?” he chided. “Everyone knows you never leave anything completely to chance. I die or disappear and the information goes directly to the police and they’ll give it to your father. You lose.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“00795644,” Jarod recited slowly.

Nelson swore as he recognized the number of one of the largest of his ‘hidden’ accounts. “Fine. I believe you. Now what? I let her go and she goes to the cops and I end up in jail.”

Jarod shook his head. “No. She won’t call the police. Besides, she has no idea where we’d be going so how could she call the police?”

“Okay,” Nelson conceded. “Fine. But if the cops or my father show up, you’re dead.”

“Fair enough.”

“Jarod, don’t do this,” Jana begged.

“It’s ok, Jana,” he reassured. “I’ll be fine.” He turned and cupped Jana’s face, deliberately turning his back on Hobbert. “But I need you to do me a favor,” he told her. “Let Grams know that something’s come up, and they should go ahead and go to dinner at Chelle’s house without me tonight.”

Jana’s eyes widened as she realized what he meant. “I can do that. Promise.”

“Good girl,” he said with a smile. “Don’t worry and don’t call the cops, okay? I can handle this.”

“Just be careful, okay?” she said with a teary smile. “I don’t think I could find another physical therapist that works as cheap as you do.”

“It’s gonna be fine.” He turned back to a seething Nelson Hobbert. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“Not until I know she’s gonna behave,” Hobbert growled, training his gun on Jana. “Shot to the leg won’t kill her,” he said with a malicious grin.

“But the gunshot will bring all manner of attention to you,” Jarod told him. “But if you ‘want’ to bring security and the odd troubled vet storming the place, go right ahead.”

Hobbert scowled but put the gun away without firing a shot. “I see one cop and he’s dead,” he told Jana before grabbing Jarod’s arm and pulling him roughly toward the exit stairs.

Jarod followed without complaint, mind already going over how he could finish this without anyone getting hurt.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jarod took Hobbert through several ‘long cuts’ to give Constance time to get her and the others to safety. He never doubted for a moment that Jana understood what he’d been telling her, and he knew Constance would know what to do. He drove carefully over the snowy streets while taking care not to be too obvious in his delaying tactics. But he knew Hobbert’s patience was wearing thin and so he took a back way to Constance’s house, parking behind the familiar structure.

“Is this it?” Hobbert asked.

Jarod nodded. “I’ve got it well hidden, but we’ll have to take a back way in. I don’t have a key and the family will be gone already.”

Hobbert shrugged. “Long as you get me what I came for I don’t care if you have to stand on your head to get it. Now move.”

Jarod made his way carefully across the quiet yard to the tree that gave such wonderful access to the room he was staying in. He started climbing only to have Hobbert grab his coat and pull him down.

“I’m not climbing a damned tree to get to this thing,” he protested. “Find another way. If the family’s gone there won’t be a problem breaking in, will there?” He used his gun to herd Jarod to the back door. “Get us in.”

Jarod nodded and reluctantly knelt to examine the door. It only took him a moment to pick the lock… because someone had left the chain and dead bolt undone. But Hobbert didn’t need to know that. He made a show of popping the lock then entered the dark kitchen. “Happy now?” he inquired sarcastically. “It’s upstairs.” He led the younger man up the stairs to the second floor, then further on to the small attic room on the third floor.

“Thought you said the tree would get us there,” Hobbert accused, his hand tightening on the gun. “That tree only reached the second floor.”

“And then we’d have had to climb up here,” Jarod lied easily. “Now, do you want your stuff or not?”

Hobbert pressed the barrel of the gun into Jarod’s back. “Try anything funny and you’re dead. Do you understand me?”

“Better than you know,” Jarod muttered, leading the way into the smaller room. He flipped on the small table lamp and settled into the desk chair. He removed a small tool kit from the top desk drawer then started to take apart the second drawer. He watched Hobbert prowl the small room as he carefully unfastened the hidden compartment that housed the information he’d hidden – as well as a small recording device. 

He started the recording and carefully started asking the questions that still puzzled him about Nelson Hobbert’s motives. “So,” he asked casually, “mind if I ask why you’re stealing from your father’s business when in the end it’s all coming to you anyway?”

The dark bark of laughter spoke volumes. “All coming to me? Not if the old bastard gives it all away to a succession of money pits that support a bunch of freeloading addicts and drunks.” He shook his head. “He’s given away twice as much as I’ve squirreled away. That’s why he never noticed it was missing – it wasn’t anything in the overall expenditures.”

“He's supporting places that help people, Nelson. Doesn’t that count for something?” Jarod asked, unsurprised but still shocked by the venom of the response.

“And what do those ‘people’ give back? Absolutely nothing. They get room, board, meals, doctors – and within a week of leaving they’re back on the street looking for their next fix.”

Jarod shook his head. “The majority of those ‘freeloaders’ are military veterans. They fought for our country and now they’re trying to find where they fit after all they’ve seen.” He sighed, thinking of some of the troubled men and women he’d worked with. “They’ve done a *lot* to earn what your father and others are doing for them.” He pulled a metal box from the depths of the drawer and set it on the desk. “And why do *you* deserve it?” he questioned sharply. “What have you done besides take what your father earned? Earned from a business he started with your mother’s family’s money, by the way,” he added with a knowing smirk. “You take his money, and when he finally gives you responsibility you start to steal from him to fund your drug habit.”

“You’re wrong,” Hobbert shot back. “I’ve put up with my old man’s disappointed glares and self-righteous lectures for 30 years. I’ve done everything he wanted me to do, tried to be the good son but I was never good enough.” He smirked. “So I found something I was good at; making money off the very people that have been stealing from my inheritance. It’s amazing how much money those drugs go for on the street. I’ve nearly doubled my investment, as you’ve probably seen. Now, enough stalling. Hand it over.”

Jarod opened the box and pulled out a thick envelope that he held out for Hobbert. As the younger man reached for the packet, he blew a handful of specially formulated powder into Hobbert’s face.

“What the HELL!?” Hobbert yelled, firing blindly at Jarod even as wiped at his eyes with his arm.

Jarod dodged the wild shot easily. “A special treat I mixed up just for you, Nelson,” Jarod informed him casually. “Something to give you an idea what some of those ‘freeloading addicts and drunks’ have to deal with.” He moved out of Hobbert’s reach. “It messes with your perception and your coordination. It also tends to lead to some very nasty headaches and muscle spasms as it works its way out of your system.” He backed towards the door. “It wears off… eventually. Unlike the pain that you’ve left the residents of St Anthony’s with.”

“You’re going to regret that, pretty boy,” he growled as he advanced on Jarod, his steps faltering.

“Wow, that’s actually working faster than I expected. Good to know,” Jarod observed.

“You’re a dead man,” Hobbert snarled.

“Not today I’m not,” he responded mildly.

Hobbert dropped the envelope and launched himself at Jarod. The ensuing struggle should have been completely one sided, but apparently Jarod had miscalculated Nelson Hobbert’s desperation fueled strength. Jarod managed to knock the gun from Hobbert’s hand but not before the smaller man caught Jarod across the temple with the butt of it. Jarod shook his head to clear it, and Hobbert laughed coming back with another wild punch that knocked Jarod into the wall. Jarod countered as best he could but Hobbert was a whirlwind of kicks and punches that were difficult to anticipate and block. Hobbert managed to grab Jarod’s shirt and swung him around by it, slamming him into the door frame. Jarod’s head connected with the corner of the frame and the world went gray around the edges.

Hobbert took the moment’s advantage, retrieving the gun and the envelope and dashing out the door.

Jarod struggled upright and followed the retreating man. Multiple images swayed before him but he forced himself to focus and managed to make it down the stairs without incident. He was further blinded when the light at the bottom of the stairs flipped on.

“Hold it right there,” Miss Parker’s voice sounded from the stairs.

Jarod smiled. They had him.

He moved further down the stairs, trapping Hobbert between himself and Miss Parker. He couldn’t see either of them clearly, but he could tell Hobbert had stalled on the second floor landing… in front of Jarod’s room - the room with the escape tree. He watched as Hobbert fired a shot at Miss Parker and ducked into the room. Jarod threw himself down the remaining stairs and into the room. Hobbert was halfway to the balcony, and the tree, when Jarod managed to grab him. The smaller man fought like a cornered animal, snarling at Jarod even as he moved closer to the window, and escape.

“I’d stop right there if I were you,” Miss Parker said from the doorway. “There are local cops waiting for you at every exit, including this one.” She looked over at Jarod. “You okay?”

“Pretty much,” he answered, glancing back at the familiar figure. “Though seeing three of you is a bit disconcerting.”

The distraction was all Hobbert needed. 

Jarod felt an arm wrap around his neck and a gun barrel press to his temple. 

“I don’t know who the hell you are,” Hobbert snarled. “But I’m getting out of here with what I came for, even if I have to kill him to do it.” 

“No,” she answered. “You see, I’ve spent far too long chasing this sneaky little know-it-all all over the country. I’m not going to lose him to some poor little rich boy with entitlement issues.” She gave Jarod a knowing smirk. “Well done on the evidence collecting by the way. The local guys already have a copy. Not sure if that’s what you had in mind, but it seemed like the best place to leave it.”

“No, that’s fine,” Jarod confirmed. “I’d thought about giving him a head start, but that didn’t go quite like I planned.”

“Damn. Broots, make a note, Jarod actually admitted to a plan going wrong,” she said to someone standing just outside the doorframe. “I’m shocked.”

“I’m not that bad,” Jarod argued.

“Yeah. You really are,” she countered.

The arm around Jarod’s neck tightened. “You’re gonna call off the cops and I’m gonna leave here without any interference, or I’m gonna blow his damned head off.”

Miss Parker rolled her eyes. “No. No you’re not. You see, he may be a colossal pain in the ass, but he’s *my* colossal pain in the ass,” she said almost conversationally as she kept her gun aimed at Nelson Hobbert. “So unless you want to spend the rest of your, most likely very short, life breathing through a hole in your neck, you’ll let him go.”

He gripped Jarod tighter, trying to ease towards the window. “Like you’d risk him.”

Miss Parker smirked and cocked her gun. “Try me.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he challenged, his grip wavering just a bit.

“Um… yes she would,” Broots offered from the safety of the doorway. “She totally would.”

Miss Parker’s smile turned malicious. “Just remember it’s nothing personal, Jarod.”

“Course not,” Jarod answered, subtly shifting so he’d be ready to move. He felt Hobbert’s hold shift, the grip loosening just enough. He dropped, his body going completely limp in the younger man’s grip even as the sharp report of Miss Parker’s gun exploded in the small room.

“Jarod?” came Sydney’s concerned voice from the hallway.

“I’m fine,” he reassured, even as his ears rung from the gun blast. “I’m fine.” He shifted around, blinking rapidly to try and clear his blurred vision. He watched several blurry versions of Miss Parker bending over the writhing and moaning Nelson Hobbert. “What about him?” he asked, uncertain what answer he wanted most.

“Oh. He’ll live,” Miss Parker answered smugly. “Can’t have him getting off too easily, now, can we? Not after all the work you’ve put in to making it clear just how much of a scumbag embezzler this little prick is. I can’t wait to see how the police react when they find out just *who* you’ve been stealing money and assistance from.” She leaned down to look into Nelson Hobbert’s eyes. “And I’m gonna make *sure* they find out.”

Hobbert’s only response was a pained whimper.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It took far too long, in Miss Parker’s opinion, to deal with the local authorities. Syd proved his worth, at least, by taking over most of the paperwork and awkward explanations. Personally, she counted it a good evening considering she hadn’t shot anyone else, though it had been close a few times.

After the last of the locals had left, she finally had the time to think about what she was going to do about her injured Pretender. His eyesight and hearing were nearly back to normal but Syd was right, they needed to watch him for concussion. So she’d handcuffed him to the nearest solidly-bolted-to-the-floor radiator, and put a suitably cowed Broots in the same room with orders to make sure Jarod didn’t give them the slip... again. She was fairly certain he'd not let Jarod talk him into doing anything stupid, but she'd doubled checked the locks on the windows and doors just to be safe.

She was sitting in the living room, trying to find a flight out of town when Constance Johnson joined her.

“You’re not going to be going anywhere tonight,” the older woman announced. “No planes in or out for the next several days most likely. There’s a big storm moving in.”

“And you know this how?”

“My eldest boy just called and let me know he and his family won’t be joining me for Christmas,” she offered, ignoring Miss Parker’s sharp tone. “So you and your boys might as well settle in for the night. And I won’t allow you to keep Jarod chained up like some misbehaving dog.”

“He stays handcuffed,” Miss Parker said firmly. “I’m not about to let him give me the slip now.”

Constance shook her head. “He’s not going to run,” she said confidently. “Besides, the snow will hinder him just as much as it does you.”

“You obviously have no idea who you’re dealing with,” Miss Parker told the older woman. “I told you before, you have no idea who Jarod is or what he’s capable of.”

Constance moved confidently across the room until she stood before Miss Parker. “I’ve known what Jarod is from the moment he set foot in this house, young lady,” she countered. “He’s a lost little boy looking for a place to call home.” She tilted her head, her unseeing eyes fixed on some distant place only she could ‘see’. “And somehow, I don’t think he’s the only one.” She gave Miss Parker a small smile. “I’ll offer you a compromise. You release Jarod and I’ll guarantee he won’t run.”

“You can’t be certain of that,” Miss Parker challenged.

“Yes, I believe I can. However, until the four of you leave, this place is neutral ground,” she commanded. “No threats, no guns, no running. The four of you will join the few of us here for Christmas or until the snow clears enough for you to leave safely, whichever comes first.” She held out her hand to Miss Parker. “And Jarod will get the same opportunity.”

Miss Parker studied the blind woman for a long moment, weighing her options. She looked out once more at the heavy blanket of snow that was steadily growing. “Fine. But if he runs it’s on your head.”

“Fair enough. Now, bring your things and I’ll show you where you’ll be staying. Luckily most everyone has gone to their relatives for the holiday season so there are spare rooms.” She walked from the room, clearly expecting Miss Parker to follow – which she did.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Voices brought Miss Parker out of her doze. She threw on her robe and followed the sound to the kitchen where she found Jarod, Broots, Constance, and a young couple – complete with sleepy looking red-headed child – sitting around the table and drinking what she assumed was either coffee or cocoa. Jarod gave her small smile and motioned her in, offering her his seat as he rose and prepared her a cup of cocoa apparently. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Grant works for the city and has to go out. They’re working the roads and have called everyone in,” Broots explained. “So, he came over to let everyone know what he’d found out about the roads. By the way, Miss P, we’re probably not going anywhere until after Christmas, maybe not until after New Year’s. It’s a *big* storm front that’s coming in.”

“Wonderful,” she muttered, reaching up greedily for the mug Jarod was holding out for her. She was surprised when he leaned in close and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “What the…”

“Language,” Constance snapped before Miss Parker even had a chance to curse.

“What was that all about, Jarod?” she asked, genuinely confused by the action.

He pointed up, and that’s when she saw the bundle of dark green leaves with white berries hanging over the chair. “Seriously?” she grumbled.

“I have it on very good authority,” Jarod told her with a smile, “that kissing under the mistletoe is a Christmas Rule.”

“And you hast’a obey the rules this close to Christmas,” the little girl added around the thumb in her mouth.

“And I know what a stickler you are for rules,” Jarod teased.

“Now you hast’a kiss him,” the little girl intoned seriously. “Otherwise it don’t work.”

“It *doesn’t* work, Em,” Constance corrected, “not ‘don’t’.”

“Sorry, Nana,” she apologized, her sleepy eyes focusing on Miss Parker. 

Jarod was daring her and they both knew it. She stood, going toe to toe with Jarod. She caught Broots’ grin out of the corner of her eye. He had his cell phone out poised to take their picture. She turned her full watt glare on him. “You breathe a word about this to anyone, let alone put up a picture of it and I will shoot you in the kneecaps and make you watch as I dismantle your precious electronics, all of them, piece by meticulous piece with extreme prejudice.”

“Yes, Ma’am – no ma’am,” Broots stuttered, eyes wide. “I mean. I saw nothing. Never have, never will.”

“Very good,” she praised before turning back to Jarod. She placed a hand against his cheek, liking the feel of Jarod’s 5 o’clock shadow against her palm. She leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to Jarod’s cheek. She turned back to the little girl. “Does that satisfy things for now?” she asked the little girl, only to find the little one had fallen back to sleep.

“Yes it does,” Constance reassured. “Now. Grant, you be careful. We’ll keep an eye on Chelle, Nicole and Em. Promise. Now go. You’re needed.”

The young man nodded, handing off the little sleeping girl to his wife before grabbing his cooler and heading out the door.

“All right, everyone,” Constance said. “Back to bed. The snow and drama can wait until morning.” She drained the last of the cocoa from her mug, and got up to head for bed. “See you all in the morning.” 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Morning came sooner than anyone expected.

Jarod startled awake at the sound of Emma crying. He jostled Broots and held out his hands to the half-asleep tech. “I need to check what’s going on,” he pleaded. “Please.” He could tell the moment Broots heard the little girl crying. The other man’s eyes snapped fully open, and he quickly grabbed the key and unlocked the cuffs around Jarod’s wrist. Broots had the door open and was on his knees by the crying little girl before Jarod had even gotten untangled from the blankets.

“Hey, sweetie,” Broots crooned, brushing back wild red curls. “What’s wrong?”

Emma leaned into Broots. “Sissy’s crying,” she gasped out between hiccupping breaths and scared tears. “She wet her bed and now she’s crying and she wants Uncle Ian or Granny Vicki but they aren’t here and she’s crying an’ I tried to tell her it was okay if she hadda accident ‘cause Nana always says it okay and…” She curled into Broots’ chest and the rapid flow of words gave way to sobs.

He wrapped his arms around her small frame, looking over his shoulder at Jarod. “Go see if you can find out what’s going on.”

Jarod nodded and headed towards the main kitchen, knowing it was the most common meeting place. He found Constance struggling into her boots, her hair wrapped in a colorful scarf and Miss Parker, of all people, holding her coat. “How can I help?”

Constance turned at the sound of his voice. “Do you have Emma?” she asked sharply.

“No,” came Broots’ voice from behind his shoulder. “I do, Ms. Johnson. She’s fine, just a little scared.”

Jarod turned to see Broots carrying Emma, her slender arms wrapped around his neck as he cuddled her close. He was good at that.

“Emma-bug” Constance called out, “Everything’s okay. Your little brother just decided to show up early, is all. Your mama’s with her right now, and I’m going over too. We’ll take good care of her.”

Emma’s eyes widened as she looked up at her great grand-mother. “Baby’s coming for Christmas?” she asked in wonder.

“Looks that way,” Constance confirmed with a grin.

“With the barometric changes and all the excitement, I’m not surprised,” Jarod offered. “Especially as far along as she is.”

“What does barometric pressure...” Miss Parker trailed off, “You know what. I really don’t want to know.”

“Okay, Constance said, shrugging into her coat. “I need someone to watch Em and someone to take me over to Chelle’s. She was planning a home birth anyway, and Chelle *should* be calling the midwife to help talk us through things since no one is getting through this snow tonight.”

“Jarod,” Miss Parker said with a resigned sigh. “Take either Broots or Sydney and go make yourself a midwife,” she muttered. “But if you run…”

“I’ll go,” Broots offered. “I think I still remember the lamaze breathing from when my daughter was born. It might help.”

Miss Parker looked at the sniffling child still cradled in Broots’ arms. “Well, with a choice like that I guess I’m staying here with the red-head.” She glanced up at Broots, “And one Gone With the Wind quote out of you and I will gut you.”

Broots blinked, startled. “I didn’t… I wouldn’t….”

“Just get going. Wake Syd on the way out.”

Broots’ handed her the little girl and hurried back to change.

Miss Parker and Emma studied each other for long moments, neither looking particularly impressed with the other. Emma broke the stalemate first. “May we watch cartoons, please?”

Miss Parker nodded. “Sure. Let’s see what we can find.” She carried the little girl into the softly furnished commons room, the largest room on the second floor aside from the kitchen/dining area. She settled Emma on the couch and turned on the tv finding a cartoon channel for the little girl. She heard the door close and leaned back against the couch. “Okay. For the record, I’m not exactly great with kids,” she admitted. “So if you need something, you have to tell me because I won’t know you need it otherwise. I’m going to sit here and work on some reports, and you are going to sit there quietly and watch cartoons. Deal?”

Emma shrugged and stuck her thumb in her mouth, turning and ignoring Miss Parker completely.

And that’s exactly the scene Sydney walked in on; Miss Parker sitting on one end of the couch with Emma leaning on the arm at the other end watching cartoons. He shook his head in bemusement. “So, Broots said you’re going to have a little brother soon,” he said, sitting down near Emma. “Pretty exciting.”

Emma nodded shyly.

“I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Sydney.” The formal tone made the little girl giggle. “And you are?”

“Emma. But Nana calls me Emma-bug sometimes.”

They spoke of nonsense and playful things until Miss Parker was ready to strangle them both. She picked up her folders and began to relocate to the dining room table. Sydney noticed the movement. “Going somewhere, Parker?”

“Some of us have work to do.”

“Melissa isn’t very nice,” Emma whispered to Sydney.

Miss Parker stopped. “What did you say?”

Emma shrugged. “You aren’t,” she confirmed. “You’re mean to Jarod and Mr. Broots.”

“Because there are times they deserve it,” she responded quickly. “But that’s not what I mean. Why did you call me Melissa?”

Emma sighed and rolled her eyes. “It’s your long name,” she said as if that explained everything.

“My what?”

Emma sighed again and looked over at Sydney. “Did she even go to school ‘cause she sure don’t know a lotta the ‘portant things?” she asked Sydney quietly.

Sydney did his best not to laugh, quirking an eyebrow at Miss Parker over the child’s head. “I believe she went to a very special school.”

Emma thought about that for a bit, her brow furrowing in concentration as she looked between Miss Parker and Sydney. Her eyes widened suddenly. “Oh. Like Tommy Marcum. He goes to a special school too. He eats lunch with us sometimes, but he doesn’t know about magic polite words and things either.”

Miss Parker glared at Sydney as he fought a losing battle with laughter. “No, Emma. Not that kind of special school. Miss Parker is a very smart woman, but I don’t think we understand some of what you’re talking about. They may call them different things now than they did when we were in school,” he reasoned with her. “Now, I assume by ‘magic polite words’ you mean ‘please’ and ‘thank you’?”

Emma nodded. “And I’ve *never* heard her use them. Ever! So I guessed she didn’t know them, ‘cause if you know them why not use them?”

“Very good point. But what about the names?”

Emma sighed again and looked at the two adults with the long suffering air that only children can truly excel at, especially when dealing with ‘silly’ grown-ups. “Everybody has a name but some people have long names and short names,” she began patiently. “My momma’s long name is Rochelle but her short name is Chelle.”

“All right,” Sydney encouraged, nodding his understanding. “We called ‘short names’ nicknames, but it’s basically the same thing. But why would you say Miss Parker’s long name is Melissa?”

“Because it’s the long name for her growed up short name.” She sighed at Sydney’s obvious confusion. “My best friend at school is Melissa but we call her Missy. That’s her short, kid name. When a kid gets to be all growed up, they drop the ‘ee’ off the end of their short name to get their growed up short name. Missy’s sister Ann was called Annie until she growed up and said that ‘Annie’ was a kid name. So now that she’s growed up, she’s Ann. Just like Tommy will be Tom and Johnny will be John. SOooo, Miss Parker’s first name is Miss and the kid name of Miss would be Missy and Missy is the short name for Melissa.”

“Very nicely logic-ed out, my dear. Well done.”

Emma grinned at the praise, looking over at Miss Parker to see her reaction as well. Miss Parker’s eyes were bright with unshed tears even as she gave the little girl a soft smile. “So, does that make you ‘Emmy’,” she asked.

Emma shook her head. “I’m just Em, cause it’s even shorter and is a lot easier to write.”

Miss Parker laughed at the serious tone. “Fair enough. Okay, just Em, then what do you want to do now?” she asked, putting her paperwork aside to spend some time with the amazing little girl now sat beside her on the couch. There would be time for paperwork later. And besides, it was just her, Emma and Syd – and who would ever believe Syd, even if this time he was telling the truth.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Christmas eve day started with pancakes, coffee and a brand new little boy being welcomed into the family. The streets were still closed for the most part, but several of Grant’s coworkers, after hearing about his new grandson entering the world, took it upon themselves to get Nicole and newborn Jarod Emmett Ralston – named after the two men who helped deliver him (though Broots had sworn them to secrecy about where the middle name had come from) – to the local area hospital to be checked over. Everything had gone smoothly and the child seemed hale and healthy, but Jarod had insisted once a way to safely transport the pair and new grandmother Chelle to the hospital had been presented. The rest of the family spent the day napping, watching Christmas specials, and secretly wrapping presents to be placed under the tree after a certain red-head was fast asleep.

Word came back to them that little Jarod was indeed perfectly fine as was his mother. They managed to get contact with Ian, who was ‘currently playing soldier in a large sandbox’, to let him know he was a new father. He was already in rotation to come home shortly after the first of the year, and they were already making plans for what to do when he got home. They also received a heartfelt apology and offer of assistance from Wyatt Hobbert who let them know he was going to be working closely with Jana to repair the damage his son had done to St Anthony’s. As for his son, Wyatt would only say that Nelson was ‘receiving the help he needed’ but not what the future might include for the young man. Jarod couldn’t really find it in himself to be too troubled by that, though he did wonder if that said more about Nelson, or about himself.

Dinner preparation was a loud and boisterous affair with everyone, even Miss Parker, assisting in some way. Jarod wasn’t sure why Miss Parker smiled every time Emma called her Miss, but he had a feeling he’d find out someday, but for now, it was just nice to see her smile. The meal itself was quiet by comparison, but not an uncomfortable quiet. They spoke of Christmas traditions and Christmas wishes and traded favorite stories of Christmases past. After the dinner things were cleared away they settled around the television with hot cocoa and watched _The Muppet Christmas Carol_ (Emma’s choice) followed by the original _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ (something Jarod had never seen that Emma and Broots both suggested). Emma fell asleep just as the Grinch’s heart grew three sizes, and Jarod carefully tucked her up in a soft blanket.

The credits rolled, and Jarod lifted the sleeping child off the floor and followed Constance to her room. Em was tucked safely up on the daybed, where she curled around her favorite stuffed rabbit without ever really waking up. 

Constance stopped him from leaving with a carefully outstretched hand. “Happy Christmas, Jarod,” she said. “I want you to remember something for me,” she began softly, “no matter where you are or what name you’re going by, you will always belong to this family. You have a place here that will be waiting for you whenever you need or want it,” she promised, pulling him into a tight hug. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

Jarod couldn’t talk around the tightness in his throat, so he settled for just hugging the older woman back as tightly as he could. “Thank you, Grams,” he finally managed. He bussed a tender kiss across her cheek. “Merry Christmas and I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good.” She pulled back just a bit. “Now remember. If you stay downstairs, a certain red-headed bundle of energy and Christmas joy will most likely come bounce on you the second the sun comes up. So keep that in mind when you’re doing whatever it is you want to be doing tonight.”

It took Jarod a few moments to parse what she was saying, and when he did, he blushed so hot Constance could feel it.

“Off to bed, young man,” Constance scolded. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

He closed the door behind him then made his way back to the common room. Miss Parker was the only one left. She sat on the couch, cocoa mug caught absently in her hands as she contemplated the fire in the fire place.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he prompted, as he settled on the couch beside her.

“This doesn’t change anything,” she said, eyes firmly on the flickering flames.

Jarod smiled. “Of course not,” he answered.

She set her cocoa mug on the coffee table with a firm _thud_. “I’m not going soft just because I’m not dragging your butt back to the Center.”

“I never thought you were,” he reassured her.

Miss Parker sighed and finally turned to look at him, her expression almost wistful. “You’re lucky, you know,” she began. “You’ve gathered quite the family around you.”

He gave her a soft, knowing smile. “Yes, we have.” He reached out and tucked a strand of her hair back behind her ear. “And I know how lucky I am.” 

She rolled her eyes at him, making her opinion of his quiet sentimentality very clear. “You’re a sap, Jarod,” she scolded. “You were never a sap back at the Center.”

“I just hid it better,” he countered. “Besides, isn’t that part of the Christmas tradition, sappy sentimentality?”

She shook her head, sighing resignedly. “No, that’s just an unfortunate bi-product brought on by Christmas specials and too much fruit cake and eggnog.”

He chuckled, then leaned in and kissed her delicately on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, Miss Parker.”

She gave him a shy smile even as she rolled her eyes at him. She stilled and suddenly Jarod had a feeling he might have stepped over a line he hadn’t known was there. 

With a mischievous smirk she wrapped her fingers in the front of his shirt and pulled him into a hard, hot kiss. 

Before he even had a chance to really respond, she pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. She looked up and his eyes followed. Above them was a dark green bundle of leaves with bright white berries tied together with a gold and red bow. “It’s a Christmas Rule,” she intoned seriously. “And it’s never good to break a Christmas Rule this close to Christmas.”

He chuckled, his cheeks heating even as his eyes darted to her lips. “Only works if the person you kiss,” he leaned in, lips a breath away from hers, “kisses you back.” His kiss was gentler, more coaxing but just as heartfelt.

“So I’ve heard,” she murmured when the kiss ended. She shifted, grabbing her cocoa from the table. She prodded Jarod until he rested securely in the corner of the couch. She rearranged his arms until she could curl comfortably against his side. “Merry Christmas, boy genius,” she whispered, snuggling in closer. “And this doesn’t change a thing.”

He chuckled and wrapped his arm around her. He pressed a light kiss to her hair then settled back to watch the fire and the soothing blink of the Christmas tree lights. Merry Christmas indeed.

~~ ~~ ~~ end ~~ ~~ ~~

**Author's Note:**

> This story fought me from the get go, but when it finally broke free - it just flowed. I really enjoyed writing it and I hope y'all enjoyed it too. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


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